


Good Reason

by sansast4rk



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark!Dany, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Pol!Jon, Unresolved Sexual Tension, jonsa one shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29854803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansast4rk/pseuds/sansast4rk
Summary: “Tonight is not a time for suffering, but for celebration!” She says confidently, and just like when they were children, she somehow instantly draws everyone in the rooms' attention to her. She glows—she always has—and somehow attracts even the worst of humans to that light.Jon thinks it may be a blessing and also a curse—especially because of her beauty.(AU where Jon and Sansa spend the eve of the Long Night together in the Great Hall, and Sansa gets so drunk that Jon has to carry her to bed.)
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Jonsa - Relationship
Comments: 13
Kudos: 108





	Good Reason

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's been forever since I've written but I suddenly had inspiration! Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> P.S. I only wrote this in a few hours so forgive any mistakes please! :)

“Where’s your _queen?”_ Sansa huffs out a dry laugh, taking another sip of her wine.

“Sansa, don’t,” Jon scoffs, leaning back in his chair in exasperation. He closes his eyes and sighs, pushing his thumb into his temple.

“What? We’ve finished our battle plans and have all said our goodbyes—there’s nothing else to do now, is there?” She asks, feigning curiosity. “Besides sleeping with your lover, I suppose. But you're here.”

He can hear the very pointed disdain in her voice. He ignores it. 

“She’s preparing the dragons. With food, water, and anything else they may need for the battle.” He explains, before reaching forward and grabbing his ale—the foam sloshing against his top lip before he takes a healthy swig. “They’re our greatest weapons. We both know that.”

“Yes,” she replies, with a hint of coldness. She takes another sip.

He glances over at her, scanning her face. He knows what she’s thinking, and she’s right. She always is.

_She’ll betray us. She only wants the throne, and you’re a fool to believe she wants anything else. A fool to believe she wants you._

He knows what she’s thinking because he’s felt it, too. He’s felt it since Dragonstone, since Daenerys was so willing to kill and burn and do anything else unimaginable just to sit upon the Iron Throne; the throne that only craves power and vengeance and breeds anger.

He knows what it is, what _she_ is, but he has to protect his people. His family. And they need her and her dragons to do that.

 _How deep of a hole I’ve dug myself into,_ he thinks. 

But he’s not so sure they’ll even make it through the battle, anyway. He’s sure Sansa must be feeling that same way because she’s on her third glass of wine, and she hasn’t slowed down. 

Jon’s already made his speech about the plan separately to the guards, to the fighters, to the women and children. Now all they have to do is spend the rest of their time with their family or spouse or do something they’ve always wanted to do because they aren’t sure they’ll ever be able to again.

For Arya, it’s seeing and catching up with Gendry again after so long. For Bran, it’s sitting by the fire and telling Tyrion the length of his true story. 

For Sansa, it’s getting drunk and forgetting it all, apparently.

“Maybe slow down on the wine, Sansa,” Jon sighs _again,_ reaching for her glass from the table. She clasps it out of his reach _just in time,_ and gives a small _you can’t stop me_ smirk.

“We still have many hours before anything should even start happening. You aren’t stopping the guards from drinking, are you?” She asks, narrowing her eyes a bit. He swallows thickly, breathing in through his nose. “Besides, it isn’t as if I’m going to actually be fighting. I’ll be in the crypts, waiting for _gods_ know how long to sit and wonder if my family is dead or not.”

“Don’t say that,” his chest rises and falls, and he shakes his head. She turns her own head to the side, and he’s sure he saw a glisten of a tear in her eye as she tries her damnedest to keep her _strong, fearless_ facade intact. 

He both admires and is somewhat worried about her for that. She learned to close off her feelings and emotions at too young an age, and he grits his teeth when he thinks of all the people who made her this way. Too many people. 

“Sansa, you’re their queen,” he tells her, grabbing her arm gently to make her face the crowd in front of them. There are people smiling and laughing with family; some are alone and sullen and drinking themselves dull in the back; then there are others dancing and laughing and telling unheard stories with strangers. He sees a small smile on her lips when she gazes at them all. “If you have no faith, why should they? Why should they have anything to fight for?”

She breathes in through her mouth, her smile fading and her eyes dropping to the floor as if she's remembering something. She turns to look at him after a few beats, glancing in his eyes sincerely. "I am no longer their queen."

His heart sinks and his mouth goes dry, and she's right. And it's his fault too. He left her in charge of the North, of their family’s home, and then he gave it away. Just like that.

"You are in all the ways that matter," he reassures her, the hand that's still on her arm squeezing it gently for comfort. "Especially right now. You're here, and she isn't. They love you, and don't know her. The North remembers."

He isn't exactly sure how she'll take it, but she slowly nods her head in agreement, giving a sad, small smile. He returns it, breathing out in relief. He wouldn't have even blamed her if she was angry with him for saying it.

Her lips are stained red, and her mouth is parted slightly in a beautiful way. In a way that lets him know the wine is at least making her feel at ease; maybe even calm in this chaos, he hopes.

She glances at his lips for just a second, letting out a subtle breath, and he can’t help but gulp when he notices. 

“Yes, they do,” she looks back up to his eyes just as fast as she had moved them down, and her lips quirk up in a smile. It seems more for show than genuine, though, he thinks. “So then I shouldn’t leave my people to spend the evening alone while I sullenly watch, should I?”

Before he can get a word out in reply, she stands from her chair, uses the wine cask to refill her glass, and raises it to the people who have chosen to stay in the Great Hall in their (possible) last hours.

“Tonight is not a time for suffering, but for celebration!” She says confidently, and just like when they were children, she somehow instantly draws everyone’s attention to her. She glows—she always has—and somehow attracts even the worst of humans to that light. 

Jon thinks it may be a blessing and also a curse—especially because of her beauty. 

“We’ve done all we can do for now. So, in the meantime, it’s no time for tears, but joy. It may be the last time we can experience it altogether, gods forbid. To the North!”

Jon watches her in awe; in awe of her beauty, the way she can cheer even the saddest of humans up, the way she can give hope to people who had none of it only moments before. The way she can smile the brightest smile in the world even though he can feel the deep sadness and grief radiating off of her.

“To the North!” They all chant, and she grabs her glass and joins the crowd, chanting and drinking along with them.

He hates what’s happened to them—he hates the way she’s looked at him ever since he bent the knee and brought home his _Dragon Queen._ He shudders at the memory of when he first got back to Winterfell with her—the way Sansa glared at him as if he had betrayed her beyond forgiveness. And he had, really; he knows that. And she’s right, too, and he can’t even deny it, or fight her to join his “side,” because _he_ isn’t even on his own side. 

They had gotten so close when she first entered Castle Black all those years ago, and when they took back and ruled Winterfell together. It was closer than they had _ever_ been in their lives—especially since they never even thought they would see each other again. Or _anyone_ they knew for that matter, really. They fought their own fights and survived for years and years, and all of the stupid, irrational disagreements from childhood disappeared and became a bond they both never expected. 

And now he’s ruined it. He gave away the North to _her,_ and he ruined it all.

He takes a few more lugs of his ale, trying to keep an eye on her in the crowd. He loses her a few times and his palms start to dampen _(it’s the ale, he assures himself)_ but he attempts to rest easy knowing Brienne always has an eye on her. Always.

He’s a bit buzzed when he finishes his fourth ale, but decides to stop at that to have a clear head in the morning. Just enough to take the edge off, but not enough to make it all numb (even though he wants to.)

That’s when he hears _“Lady Stark! Lady Stark! Lady Stark!”_

The whole room is beginning to chant her name, now; men and women alike. Jon stands from his chair and furrows his eyebrows, pushing his way through the packed room full of people. Finally, he spots _that_ red hair. Unmistakable.

She’s standing there with an entire pitcher of ale to her mouth, already almost down to the bottom. Her free arm is around some unknown man who is looking at her and her chest much too crudely for Jon’s liking. 

The ale is dripping down her chin, down her dress, and it’s only when Jon forces his way past more people and grabs the pitcher from her hand that she sways a bit and laughs. She looks him right in the eyes, her face flushed, the biggest smile on her face, and says “To the North!”

They all chant it again, and Jon shoves the pitcher into a much-too-happy guard's chest, before huffing and wrapping his arm around Sansa’s waist. He pulls her from the other man (who keeps a _much_ too tight grip on her for Jon’s comfort.)

“Alright, it’s about time to settle down. Everyone needs as much rest as possible before the morning.” Jon sighs, hating to be the one to dampen the mood and remind everyone of what’s to come in only a few short hours. But that’s what a king should do in this situation—like it or not, he knows. 

People do their best to make way for them to get through the Great Hall, and Jon does his best to keep a drunken Sansa upright as everyone bumps into each other.

“Your Grace, should I escort Lady Stark to her chambers?” Brienne asks, finding them through the crowd and holding Sansa on her other side. 

They make their way between the long tables as the people of Winterfell drunkenly, despairingly leave the Great Hall through the doors that lead to the cold outside. 

For a moment they had all forgotten about the war, and Jon ruined it for them all. Especially Sansa.

“It’s alright, Brienne, I’ve got it. Please help the guests to their tents and I’ll get Sansa to her chambers. Please have guards sent to her chambers as soon as you can to escort her to the crypts when...when it begins.” He gives a sad smile up at her, and she nods, returning it. 

She helps them through the doors of the Great Hall only a few steps ahead, and then looks at Jon and Sansa both for a beat, as if she may never see them again, and nods once more in respect as she releases Sansa from her grip. 

Jon feels the lack of weight support from Brienne immediately as she walks away, and he and Sansa tilt to the left, his shoulder lightly bumping the wall before he lifts them back upright. 

“Whoa, whoa,” he says, giving a tired, sad laugh as he tries to keep a better balance. Sansa laughs too, drunkenly, but her feet are dragging the ground, and it’s not working. 

“Sansa!” he tells her sternly, using his strength to turn her slightly and hold her shoulders up so he can look in her eyes. She’s biting her lip, trying not to laugh. 

He’s never seen her like this. He’s never seen her so carefree, so light, so happy. It took the end of the world to let her loosen up and embrace her freedom, and yet she spent so much time trying to keep the image of _The Lady of Winterfell._

He can’t really talk, either; he hasn’t had an easy time ever since he left Winterfell so long ago. Before all of it began, when they were children. He hasn’t really enjoyed himself much either since then, he realizes, because of all of the horrible things that have happened. 

Maybe he can’t enjoy the possible last night of his life, but he’s glad she can. He really, really is. 

It’s the end of it all, and Sansa is here smiling, happier than she’s ever been. He wishes so badly he could do the same.

Holding her shoulders and looking in her eyes now, he was prepared to tell her to pull herself together, to remind her that this is the last they may ever see each other. But he can’t do it. She’s embracing the fact that she should enjoy it all since she may never be able to again, and he admires it. 

So instead of a speech, he just gives her a small smile, sighs, and swoops her into his arms, carrying her there instead. 

“Jon,” she snorts in a way he’s never heard before, wrapping her arms around his neck so tightly that it seems she’s afraid the floor would kill her if she fell. 

“You’re drunk, Sansa, you can’t walk,” he replies, keeping his eyes on the hall in front of him as he holds her in his arms. “It’s alright, but you need sleep. And I’m happy to help you there.”

Silence for a few moments, before her head bobs slightly and her face falls into his shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispers against his cloak, slurring her words. “I didn’t mean to get so drunk, I mean. It’s just...it’s everything.”

“I know,” he assures her, and she hums lowly, nuzzling her face against his shoulder with a sigh. “I know, Sansa, I promise.”

He doesn’t even admit it to _himself_ that he’s taking his time carrying her to her chambers. 

_I’m just being careful with her because she’s in my arms. Just in case,_ he thinks, attempting to take it all in while it lasts. _This could be the last time I ever even see her._

“Jon, how are you carrying me?” she muffles the words against him, pulling him out of the thoughts that are swiftly going downhill in his mind. “You’re shorter than me.”

She lets out a small laugh, and drunkenly swings her hand up to his hair, setting her hand flatly on top of his head. She keeps her other hand hooked around his neck.

“You may be taller, but you’re little, still,” he forces a laugh, gritting his teeth to fight his own self control from looking at her. He doesn’t want to see her smiling up at him. He doesn’t want to think of his repressed feelings now—not at the end of the world. It means nothing now. It never did, and it never should have. 

His belly twists sickly, and he keeps going forward. They’re almost there, to her chambers, and he’s both dreading it and relieved by it. 

Mostly dreading it, though.

“We’re here,” he breathes out heavily, braving himself enough now to look down at her laying on his shoulder. “I’ll set you down. Can you stand?”

“Yes,” she replies confidently, and he feels his heart fall when he realizes _this is it. This is the last I’ll ever see of the beautiful, wise, kind, Sansa Stark._

It feels unreal and all too real at the same time. His breath doesn’t feel right, and it may not ever after this, he realizes. 

He shifts his left arm down enough to where her feet press against the stone floor beneath her, and he uses his arms to help lift her upright. She holds onto his arm for support, and once he thinks she’s stable, he releases her. 

As soon as he lets go, though, she starts to fall backwards, her hands frantically grasping at her doorknob, and her feet slipping from beneath her. 

He swiftly grabs her before she can _really_ fall; his arms wrapping around her waist as tightly as he can, and using all of his strength to pull her back up and to her feet. She gasps and her body slams against his—her back ramming into the front of her chamber doors as she clammors to find her feet. 

“You’re alright, you’re alright,” he breathes out heavily, the adrenaline pumping through his veins. “Gods, Sansa, you could have hurt yourself.”

Both of their chests are rising and falling heavily because of it, both against each other, too. He can feel her breath on his neck, and his eyes are closed and his lips are parted as her hands grasp at his cloak. 

“So sorry, Jon,” she laughs out breathlessly, her words slurring as he swallows thickly. 

Her words and her voice bring him back to reality—bring him back to the fact that he’s helping her to bed because she got so drunk he had to _carry_ her. All because they all may die tomorrow (today now, probably.) 

“Don’t be sorry,” he breathes out heavily, pulling away from her and making sure she’s steady. He brings himself from the insane stupor he was in, and clears his mind of her as much as he possibly can. All of these thoughts aren’t justified by a war. They couldn’t be justified by _anything._ “You’re drunk, and for good reason.”

She’s swaying slightly and they’re at a good distance from each other, and her beautiful red hair falls over the knuckles of his hands as he holds her up. 

“Do you think I’ll ever see you again? Or Arya, or Bran?” she asks vulnerably, her eyes watering slightly as she visibly grits her teeth. He wants to break down just looking at her now—so scared, so upset, so _Sansa._ “I’m afraid, Jon. So afraid.”

He breathes in, feeling his heart pound in his chest as he looks in her eyes, trying to be as sincere and honest as possible. “Yes, Sansa. I think we’ll win. I think the North will win.”

She smiles slightly, tears glistening in her eyes. It may be the alcohol, it may be the chaos going on around them, or it may be both. Either way, she always hides this side of herself. He hasn’t seen the real, vulnerable Sansa in what feels like a lifetime. It’s warming to see her this way, finally, when she’s hidden it for so long. It’s also heartbreaking that it took the end of the world for her to show it. 

“I know it may not seem like it, but I don’t blame you,” she laughs sadly, visibly gulping. He furrows his eyebrows, his heart still pounding loudly in his ears just from the proximity of her, and those wine-stained lips, and the eyes that are looking into his with such sincerity that he feels as if he could crumple within himself. “I don’t blame you for _her.”_

It clicks, then: Daenerys. His love and dedication to her. 

“She’s beautiful. She has dragons as _pets._ She’s done a lot of things,” Sansa gulps, smiling sadly as a tear falls down her cheek. “I’m drunk, I know, but I mean it. I don’t have to like her. I just want you to be happy. She's so very beautiful, Jon.”

They’re still an appropriate distance apart, but he still feels suffocated—in a way, though, that makes him feel guilty even with the innocent conversation they’re having.

Siblings conversing on the last night they may ever see each other is normal. This is normal. 

“It’s not her, Sansa. It’s her weapons. It’s never been about her—it’s been about my family. About you, about Arya, Bran, our _people.”_ he breathes out in a husky voice, finally telling the truth to her in hushed whispers in an empty hallway. “Not her. Not _ever_ her.”

She parts her lips for a few moments, but that’s all she does. No words. He can see the daze in her eyes so he swallows thickly and composes himself. He was stupid to think she cared _why_ he was sleeping with the _Dragon Queen._

“Alright, let’s get you to bed,” he tells her with a small, forced smile, one of his hands reaching towards the doorknob behind her. 

His hand doesn’t even _reach_ the knob before Sansa slams her lips into his, forcing his palm to hit the door instead.

Her lips are warm and taste like sweet wine, and it’s all so sudden and it feels so _right_ that his head spins over and over and over again until he can’t even process what’s going on. 

Her hands reach up and tangle in his hair, and he can feel her desperate breath against him, and his heart pounds so hard that he thinks it may explode. 

Nothing could ever compare to this, he knows, and if they lose the war, nothing ever will. He somehow is content with that. 

“I’m so sorry,” she pants, pulling her lips from his. “I shouldn’t have. I wasn’t thinking, and I’m drunk, and I…”

She won’t make eye contact, and her words are quick and pointed, and she doesn’t finish that thought. “I’m so sorry, Jon, please forget this. Good luck. I hope you’re right about us winning the war.”

She turns around and fumbles for the door knob, and he softly calls her name, wanting to desperately tell her _no, I don't want to forget this,_ but by the time her door slams behind her and he’s left in the hallway all alone, something else gets his attention.

“Jon, there you are,” Sam gulps, gasping for air as if he’s been running. “I have to tell you about something. Something important. Bran and I both, actually. It’s urgent.”


End file.
